


if you never know who you can trust then trust me, you'll be lonely

by wishfulfiction



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, heist!au, human!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 04:37:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20633198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishfulfiction/pseuds/wishfulfiction
Summary: Connor thought that Hank wouldn’t be a problem.Hank thought Connor also wouldn’t be a problem.Everything works for all of two seconds, until a life-threatening decision throws both the Stern Syndicate, a high-profile crime family working in the highest levels of Detroit society to influence, manipulate, and control, and Hank Anderson’s motley crew of small-time criminals together working towards a common goal — rob Elijah Kamski of all he’s worth.





	if you never know who you can trust then trust me, you'll be lonely

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! Gen and I were paired together for the HCRBB, and we got to dive into the wonderful world of heist movies!
> 
> I was really so lucky to be partnered with such a fantastic human being. I hope everyone loves her art as much as I do and that this fic can do it even a little bit of justice.

_I may be getting too damn old for this_. 

It’s not the first time, and certainly not the last time, that he’d thought something along that same line before. Given the chance - really, given enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life - it’s extremely possible that he _would _retire from this. But the suspension, combined with hospital bills that just wouldn’t fucking disappear are enough to keep him going.

That, and he had to admit there was a certain thrill that accompanied a truly successful heist.

“Gavin, for fuck’s sake, how much longer until you’re clear?” Hank shouts into the headset he’s wearing, watching the cameras in front of him. Tension rises in the pit of his stomach the longer that he sees Gavin, Tina, and Chris waiting outside of the vault doors.

He hears a curse, followed by a ‘Tell him I’m fucking _working on it_, Teeny!’ before Tina’s exasperated voice comes through the headset. “Did you get that, Boss?”

“Crystal clear, Tina,” he replies, eyes flicking back to the camera they’d hacked in the hallway outside the vault. “You’ve got about three minutes before the next round.”

He sees the slightly-grainy figure of Gavin raise a middle finger to the camera he knows Hank is watching from. Hank can’t help the roll of his eyes that follows.

A flicker of static passes across the three screens that Chris had set up before leaving, and Hank frowns. Of all the things he _could _say about Chris’ work, shoddy would never be one of them. With how much Chris was going on about the new equipment he had sprung for, the flicker makes Hank pause.

But it’s nothing compared to the complete _somersault _his stomach does when he hears Gavin’s voice again. “_Fuck_!”

His eyes go back to the camera watching his team, frowning when he sees them rooting around in a vault that seems _way _too empty.

“Boss, we got a situation here,” Gavin’s voice crackles through the headset. Hank can hear rustling in the vault, checks Gavin’s body camera and frowns when he sees papers at the bottom of the safety deposit box.

Hank brings the mic of the headset closer, leaning in closer to study the camera. “The hell are you talkin’ about, Reed?”

“Vault’s cleaned out,” Gavin says, opening up another deposit box and ruffling around various papers. “No jewels, no cash, _nothin_’. I think someone beat us to it.”

Hank barely has enough time to process that, about what that would mean, before Gavin pulls out one of the pieces of paper. All Hank can make out is a mess of fine black ink. “Wait, I think I found something…”

“What the hell’s going on, Gav?” Hank hears Tina say. He turns around in his chair to look out the window in the direction of the bank reflexively. He _hates_when things don’t go to plan, the weeks and weeks of endless planing feeling fruitless when he’s sitting here four blocks away. 

Instead of an answer, he hears a sharp “_Fuck_!” in his ear, sharp enough that he turns around, focusing on his body camera.

“Show me what you got, Gavin,” he says, focusing the camera slightly. The folded piece of paper had looked like a receipt at first, held open by Gavin to his chest. It’s a simple drawing, one that makes Hank pale when he sees it, accompanied by the words ‘Too Late!’

_Stern_. The name comes back to him from his years on the force, that drawing left in more places than the entire Detroit Police Department thought was possible. Even though he’d spent most of his time in homicide and had only heard the name thrown around by the frustrated robbery detectives during after-shift drinks at Jimmy’s, the connotations behind it make Hank shout into the mic.

“Get the crew out of there, now!” 

He sees Tina turn to Gavin, a worried look on her face. Gavin’s voice rings out, looking up at the vault camera and throwing his arms wide. “The fuck? We’re not done here! We could check the other vaults…”

“_Out_, now!” Hank reiterates, his voice raising. He sees Gavin throw his arms down, cursing again, but that’s about it as he hears the _schlick _of the door opening.

The door to the room he was currently sitting in.

That he _definitely _should have been alone in.

His hand is on his revolver before turns around, but he barely has time to pull it, pointing at the direction of the door, before he hears a voice he can only describe as _sing-songy_.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson.”

Hank furrows his brow, eyes moving up and down to take in the individual standing before him. When he’d heard of the legends behind the Sterns, he’d imagined an old man, sitting behind a mahogany desk, a Don Corleone-type. Not, _well_. Hank’s cheeks can’t help but heat slightly as he thinks, _not this tall drink of water_.

His fingers itch against the trigger of his revolver, and it’s telling, Hank thinks, that the man in front of him only smirks.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Anderson,” the man at the door says, stepping forward into the room. His hair is perfectly coiffed save for a curl of hair falling against his forehead. Hank barely has time to take in the impeccably fitting suit because his eyes are drawn to the two Dobermans walking in behind him. Hank steadies his hand, shifting slightly to get a better grip on the gun, before the man at the door grins, shaking his head.

Hank frowns, brow furrowing at the relative ease in which the man walks closer towards him. It doesn’t make sense, until it _does_, because Hank feels the press of a muzzle against the back of his head.

_Shit_. He _was _getting too damn old for this. The man at the door still has a smirk on his face, tugging at his lips. “My brother is very protective, you see.”

Hank turns his head slightly to look, a looming figure hovering at the edge of his peripheral vision.

Hank clears his throat, mustering up any of the bravado he can find in himself. In terms of ‘best days of his life,’ coming face-to-face with at least one of the members of the Stern Syndicate beat only one or two days that he could remember. “Stern, right?” 

He can hear the tinny voices of his crew coming through the headset that had been knocked off onto the desk. The man in front of him actually fucking _smiles_. “Connor Stern, that’s right. I’d put the revolver down if I were you, Mr. Anderson. No need for such violence, I mean…” he trails off as his eyes follow where Hank’s have flickered to, the monitors with the body cameras jostling as he assumes his crew is getting the hell out of dodge, _finally_.

“I’d hate for something to happen to your comrades, Mr. Anderson,” _Connor_says, the same sing-songy tone making Hank’s skin crawl. “After all, we just want to talk.”

Hank can’t help the laugh that escapes his lips, followed by the wince as the muzzle of the gun against his temple presses ever so-much harder. It’s uncomfortable enough for Hank to admit that the press of a gun against his temple is _not _a completely foreign sensation. It’s entirely different when he’s not the person on the other side of the gun too.

Connor raises an eyebrow, brown eyes narrowing slightly as he looks Hank up and down, eyes hovering slightly over the revolver Hank still hasn’t holstered. His eyes drift briefly over to Hank’s side, where the gunman must be standing before drifting back to Hank. Hank isn’t proud to admit he feels a wide variety of emotions as he sees Connor’s lips drift into a smile. “My brother would be _happy _to put his own firearm away if you would only do the same. There’s no reason we can’t talk pleasantly.”

Hank laughs again, this one more intentional, rolling his eyes and feeling somewhat vindicated when the man in front of him bristles slightly. It’s subtle, something Hank would like to attribute to his years on the force. Excuse me if I don’t believe you, Mr. _Stern_. I’ve heard of your… activities.”

Connor tilts his head to the side, slightly, the corner of his mouth turning upwards. “I would only imagine so, Lieutenant Anderson. Nearly twenty years serving with Detroit’s finest surely would have given you at least a glimpse at our activities.” Connor walks further into the room, Dobermans following behind him, the door closing with a _schlick_. “Although the fact that you didn’t expect to see us undermines that slightly. My guess is that being in homicide took up a tremendous amount of your time.”

Hank narrows his eyes at Connor, feeling the press of the muzzle further against his temple as he steadies his own arm holding his revolver. “How the fuck-”

“Put the revolver down, Lieutenant-” Connor says, that same sing-song quality in his voice making Hank’s skin crawl. “While my brother will generally listen to me, his patience only lasts so long.”

Hank hears a little huff of what he nearly thinks is a _laugh_from beside him. If Hank’s going to fucking _die_, he’s not going to do it giving into the demands of a twenty-something _twink_. “What, does your boss send you out to try and scare people straight? ‘Fraid he’s fucked up, the pretty-boy thing doesn’t do much for me-”

Connor’s perfectly manicured eyebrow shoots up in a way that’s more telling than he probably means to be. “You’re awfully brave for a man with a gun to his head, Lieutenant,” Connor says, stepping forward to circle around him slightly. Hank goes to move, hissing when he feels the muzzle press uncomfortably against him. Connor trails a hand, delicate fingers walking along the make-do desk Chris had set up before he left. He looks at the monitors, static still passing along the screens. Connor’s hand disappears, dipping into his pocket for a moment before he pulls out what looks like a quarter.

Hank’s mouth opens, about ready to spit out another sarcastic retort, when Connor shushes him with one finger over his own mouth. Before he can speak anyway, Connor fiddles with the coin between his fingers, static clearing up enough that Hank can see Gavin’s body camera, stomach sinking when he realizes that they’re headed directly towards him.

Hank can hear Connor hum, his body disappearing out of one side of his vision as he steps closer to his brother. “Now we already know that you don’t care that much about your own safety,” he says, Hank’s stomach sinking as he hears Connor step behind him. His hand is now holding his revolver near his side, and he feels Connor’s hand - cold, smooth, every as bit delicate as it looks - gripping Hank’s own and guiding the revolver to his holster. “But you’d hate to see them hurt, wouldn’t you?”

Hank steels his jaw, tries not to give anything away. Connor clicks his tongue in a manner that sounds like he’s _disappointed_. His hand is still on Hank’s while he holsters the revolver, lets it go with a pat to the back of Hank’s hand as he secures the strap holding the gun in place. “There you go, _much _better, isn’t it?” Connor’s close enough that Hank can feel his breath on the back of his neck, can almost _hear _the god-damned smirk that’s on his face. Hank doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until Connor continues, “Niles, you can take a step back. The Lieutenant won’t hurt us now, not if he wants his crew to survive.”

There’s movement in Hank’s peripheral vision. At the same time, he feels Connor step away and the sound of the chair he had previously been occupying rolling until he feels it press up against the back of his legs. “Sit, please, Lieutenant. It’s been quite a day.” 

Hank falls into the chair and watches with trepidation as Connor steps out from behind him. Another man - the one who had a gun to his head, he can only assume - steps behind Connor. If Connor hadn’t already told him, Hank would have been able to immediately tell that they were brothers - they very well could be twins, for all Hank knows. The other man - Niles, Hank remembers - is a few inches taller and leaner, wearing a black turtleneck sweater and hair pulled back in a perfect coif. He’s wearing a holster, leather contrasting against the material of his clothing, and Hank spots two handguns, one on either side.

“Now that everyone here’s_calm_, Lieutenant,” Connor starts, stepping back to lean against the desk. He reaches into the inner pocket of his blazer and pulls out a metal tin, cigarette between his fingers. Hank’s embarrassed to admit he feels a bit mesmerized as he watches Connor slide the tin back into his jacket with a practiced breeze, his brother with a lighter in his hand before Hank can even realize. Niles flicks the flame into existence as Connor leans in, lighting the cigarette between his fingers. Hank can feel Connor’s eyes on him but he refuses to make eye contact, instead watching the cigarette until Connor lifts it to his lips, hanging from them lazily. He looks away only when he sees Connor’s mouth quirk into a smile, cheeks slightly flushed.

Instead, Hank lets his gaze drift to the monitor, noticing that his crew is still slowly making their way towards his location. Connor notices Hank’s gaze and follows it to the screen. He makes a noise of understanding, looking back at Hank with a smile, lifting the cigarette from his lips as he slowly exhales smoke, leaving in lazy circles from his lips. “If everything goes smoothly here, they’ll be fine. It’s not our brand to hurt people unless _absolutely_necessary.”

“Smoking’ll kill you,” Hank retorts, leaning back in the chair if only to try and get himself some distance from the other two. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks them up and down. “And you two-” he says, pointedly looking at Niles, “-not hurting anyone? Sorry if I don’t necessarily believe that.” 

Connor shrugs, the clean lines of his suit hugging his shoulders. The coin he was fidgeting with weaves between his fingers, and the static clears on the monitor. “We’ve managed to throw some obstacles in their way, a friend of ours is _very _good at distracting, but it will only last so long. I came here to speak with _you_, not Ms. Chen and Misters Reed and Miller, lovely company though they no doubt are.”

Hank can feel dread form in the pit of his stomach. He never considered himself a particularly emotional person - that part of him died a long time ago - but the fact that a higher-up in a shady, mysterious, and dangerous syndicate knew the people in his crew made him anxious. “What did you need to talk to _me _about?”

“About your more recent activities,” Connor says, raising the cigarette to his lips again. He takes a smooth pull off of it before exhaling slowly, smoke leaving the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been making yourself quite a nuisance for my family.”

Hank frowns. “_Me_? What the hell are you talking about?”

“The job last month at Huntington?” Connor asks, more of a statement than anything. “Detroit Golf Club the month before? Coincidence or not, you’ve certainly been targeting more of our assets than we’d prefer.”

Hank stays silent, mind racing as he thinks over their activities in recent months. They’d hit both of those places, sure, but he'd found _nothing_that suggested that the Sterns had anything to do with them.

“Or perhaps it's just a coincidence,” Connor continues, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth when something passes over Hank’s face. “You may actually be the most unlucky man in Detroit.”

Hank actually laughs at that. “You have no idea.”

Connor raises an eyebrow at that, head tilting slightly as he appraises Hank. “I wouldn't be so sure about that.” 

Hank tries to suppress the shiver that comes over him, the thought that this man knew anything about — well, _anything _in his life enough to get the point across. “What do you want, then?” he asks, trying to remain calm and not think about the fact that there's still a man with a gun about two seconds from blowing him away.

He resolutely _doesn't _think about the fact that half of him wouldn't mind that.

“I want _you_,” Connor says, gesturing with the hand holding the cigarette, “to stop. Everything. Immediately.”

“I can't just stop!” Hank says, his voice raising. He feels the man next to him shift slightly and Connor looks at him and waives away the concern. “You don't — well fuck, you might understand, but my crew and I — we _need _this—”

Connor interrupts him with a swiftness that takes Hank off-guard. “You can take your activities elsewhere— while we've monopolized in Detroit, we could honestly care less if you decided to, say… oh, I don't know, drive down the 75 and hit Toledo, even across the border into Ontario.” He lifts the cigarette to his mouth, taking one last pull, before crushing the end of it against the desk, a black, smoking mark left in its place surrounded by ashes. Connor looks over Hank appraisingly for a moment, mouth open as if to speak, before he closes it again. “You stay out of Michigan, and I assume I won't have to resort to any more _crude_threats. You’re a smart man, Lieutenant.” 

Hank narrows his eyes, staring back at him. “You assume I've got something to live for,” he challenges Connor, who only breaks out into a worrying smile. 

“Oh, you do, Mr. Anderson, or you would have gone down blazing, I'm sure of it,” Connor says, eyes flickering to the monitors that are now flickering steadily with static. “I'm sure you wouldn't tell them, but your crew has become your family. And I _know _you'd do anything to protect them.”

Hank doesn't break eye contact but can't help the uneasiness that sets in at Connor’s words, feeling like he knows more than he's saying. And _that_is something he doesn't want to think about.

“You stay out of Michigan and we’ll never have to cross paths again,” Connor continues, cocking his head to the side as if to ask him if he understands and smiling when Hank gives him a curt nod. “_Excellent_.”

Hank jumps as he hears a low voice clear his throat, looking over his shoulder to see Niles with a hand to his ear, pressing lightly against what must be an earpiece. “Sixty’s finished, we should clear out.”

Connor rises from his perch on the edge of the desk, hands coming to smooth invisible wrinkles on his jacket. The Dobermans that followed him into the room stand as well, flanking him on either side. Niles takes quick strides to the door, opening it up and checking the hallway with a measured precision that reminds Hank of his time on the force. Connor's stride is easier, more relaxed, almost with a _swagger _that infuriates Hank.

“Nice to finally meet you, Lieutenant,” Connor says while walking away, the same sing-songy voice as before ringing in Hank’s ears long after the door has shut behind them.

_Fuck. _Hank thinks. _Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

It's not long after that Gavin, Tina, and Chris come running into the room, each carrying various equipment with varying degrees of concern on their face.

“What the _fuck_, Anderson?” Gavin shouts, throwing down the duffel he had been carrying onto the concrete floor. “You wasted weeks of planning over what? A fucking note? We could've gotten—”

“Reed, shut the fuck up,” Hank interrupts, standing from the chair he'd been practically glued to since Connor had pushed him into it. “_I’m _the boss, I say when we pull out.”

Gavin goes to open his mouth again but is cut short when Tina pushes at his bicep and steps forward. “We got it, someone beat us there — who was it? You sounded seriously freaked out, Boss.”

“The Sterns— Connor and his brother, I guess, though if I remember correctly it's their mom that runs shit,” Hank says, leaning against the desk and sighing. “It's — we’re done. No more jobs in Detroit, or Michigan.”

Gavin scoffs, shaking his head. “You're gonna let — what? Some small-time assholes keep us from the entire _state_?”

Hank raises an eyebrow, pushing himself off the desk to step forward towards Gavin. “Be lucky I'm not closing everything up entirely, Reed.”

“You might as well! We'd be stupid to cross state lines, let alone _international_ones, we don't need the fucking Feds or INTERPOL on our asses.”

Chris snorts, setting his backpack down on the desk beside Hank. “I highly doubt we'd ever hit INTERPOL’s radar—”

“That's not the fucking point!” Gavin shouts, kicking the duffel bag and cursing, waving his foot around. “Jesus _fuck_.”

Tina rolls her eyes, pushing at him again. “That's got the handheld drill in it, you absolute _dumbass_.” She turns to Hank, arms crossing over her chest. “You mean Connor Stern, CEO of Stern Enterprises? Aren't they that company that's focused on ‘Bringing Life Back to Detroit’ or something like that?”

“Not the one with those hideous billboards,” Chris complains, groaning when Tina nods. “You're telling me the people behind the company poised to basically elect the next mayor are actually the heads of a _crime syndicate_? What is this, New York in the twenties?”

“It's fucking _stupid_, is what it is,” Gavin huffs, arms crossing the wide expanse of his chest. “What'd they do, threaten us with a lawsuit?”

“If by ‘lawsuit’ you mean a gun to my head and threatening your lives, then sure,” Hank says, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulders. “Chris, break this down, you and Tina can get it stored, right?”

Chris nods, looking over to Tina for confirmation. She nods, forehead creasing in slight concern. “When should we expect to hear about the next hit?”

Hank shrugs, shaking his head. His hair falls in his face and his face crumples into a frown as he pushes it away. “I dunno, I'll reach out, it'll probably—” he pauses when Gavin interrupts, voice echoing in the relatively empty room.

“This is fucking _stupid_, you're throwing this all away for _nothing_,” he starts, uncrossing his arm with enough time to pick up his own bag and pulls it aggressively over his chest. “Don't bother fucking calling me, Anderson — I'm not working for someone who will pussy out like this because of some small-time _nobody._”

Hank doesn't even have time to respond because Gavin is storming out, turning on his heel and slamming the door behind him. Tina sighs, rubbing a hand over her face and giving Hank an apologetic look.

“Don't, Tina, it's his fucking temper, not yours,” Hank says. “Let’s just hope it doesn't end up doing something stupid like getting himself killed.”

**Author's Note:**

> We would absolutely love any sort of comments!! You can also find us on Twitter, @wishfultales and @hrtbrokentweets!


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